


tell me what you want

by lokh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Foot Jobs, M/M, POV Second Person, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokh/pseuds/lokh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ah, yes. the first fic for asakage. and what is it? pure pwp. </p><p>in which kageyama loves his senpai very much, and deserves everything he wants in the world (even if that happens to be what asahi wants too).</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me what you want

**Author's Note:**

> practice safe sex everyone!!!!!
> 
> this shit is never beta-read so Forgive me

“K-Kageyama, you really don’t have to…”

“Azumane-san,” he says, sliding to his knees anyway, and your name on his breath sounds like a prayer, blue eyes dark with adoration and looking at you like you can redeem him, give him direction like a sinner to his god.

“Azumane-san,” he says, again, and you shudder, his lips parting on the bulge of your trousers. “Please tell me how you want it.”

And you know that though he’s insistent, he’ll stop if you push, firmly tell him no, but god, he’s so, so _eager_ , hands shaking on your hips, and you can’t pretend that you aren’t, either, pressing against the soft of his mouth. Even in his forwardness, he waits for your signal, sharp shoulders held taut, and in his subtle hesitance you think you’re beginning to truly understand the depths of his desire to _please you_.

His gaze speaks multitudes of faith and affection, and if you told him to sin once more, there’s no doubt in your mind that he would do it again.

You do.

“Just like this is fine.”

His entire body moves forward and he leans in, leans his weight into you and breathes you in, and you can’t stop a sigh, wondering if his nose against your belt buckle isn’t bothering him. His mouth opens and closes, words lost into the fabric, and honestly, it barely reaches your skin, a murmur amongst yelling heartbeats, but a thrill still runs up your spine, electric, and not for the first time, you think, “oh, god, this is really happening.”

He shifts, a hand abandoning your waist to palm at you, and you really hope that groan wasn’t as loud as it sounded. His hand is so very, very warm, long fingers at first gentle and ghosting, before growing bolder, sliding slowly across the length visible through the fabric, and whatever thin thread was tethering you to the existential ground completely _snaps_ when his tongue flattens against your front, leaving a growing wet spot.

“Stop, stop,” you manage to say, one of the most coherent thoughts you’ve had in the past few minutes. Kageyama stops, immediately, warmth leaving you to hide behind worried lips.

“Is this not…?”

“No, no, it’s just,” you swallow, working your words. You can’t believe you’re really about to see this, but, “take off my pants.”

His eyes widen, and you’re worried about the blood rushing to his head when he nods, rapidly. His fingers stumble in their haste to unzip your pants, pausing when you reach for your buckle yourself.

“Azumane-san, I can–”

“It’s fine, Kageyama, I’ll do this. You’re doing just great there.”

And his eyes flicker to yours, searching, and he must find something there because his face pinks, just slightly, and he mumbles, “alright.”

It occurs to you, as you distantly hear the too-present click of your belt coming undone and the shuffle of your trousers being pulled down, that you really, _really_ want this. Thinking about it, the fact that it’s happening _right now_ , makes your heartbeat skyrocket, room suddenly too small and Kageyama so, so close, and you take in a deep breath when he stops, fingers lightly resting on the hem of your briefs, and even after all this time, getting this far, he’s still waiting for your permission, frozen until you’ve given your go-ahead, and you nod, once, head dipped by a surge of affection.

He inhales noisily; holds his breath. He hooks his fingers onto the waistband (and you try not to shiver at the feel of short, smooth nails pressing against the fat of your belly, in the curls of the hair there) and slowly, agonizingly, pulls down your underwear.

His eyes on your cock are heavy, pupils blown wide enough to envelop dark blue with pitch black. You’re trying so, so hard not to get embarrassed, trying not to succumb to the easy temptation of hiding what is probably an extremely humiliating expression behind your hands. You can’t hide or run, not now, not when Kageyama’s head is between your thighs, cheeks flushed as the head of your cock on your stomach.

“You look so good,” and, oh, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it’s true, and the pink of Kageyama’s face blossoms into a full red. He ducks his head, mumbles (you think he just _thanked you_ ), and his dark hair tickles the inside of your thigh.

He does this a lot, you’ve come to experience. Under praise, he flushes with pride (though you hope you’re not imagining that he stands, just that much straighter, when _you’re_ the one praising him), and it’s not like he isn’t admired, like his talents aren’t recognized, so you wonder why he’s like this, so in want of affection, of the physical presence gained by standing too close, except you also _don’t_ , you don’t wonder, because it hurts to think about it, makes your chest ache in a way that threatens to tear you apart.

The realization hits you like an awry serve.

He needs to be _told_.

“God, Kageyama, you look so good there. You’re so beautiful,” you say, and not in a million years would you have ever thought those words would come out of your mouth. Your heart is hammering, hammering, and you can only wonder how Kageyama must be feeling right now, eyes shining and lips trembling. Then– he’s _whimpering_ , a quiet, desperate thing, and not in the farthest recesses of your imagination would you have ever thought Kageyama capable of something so needy, so _erotic_.

It’s only then that you notice how hard he’s straining against his pants, thighs shaking and knees fidgeting. You shuffle back on the bed, just a little, but Kageyama tries to follow you, bending forward and arms reaching, and you don’t have time to _think_ (oh god oh god he’s coming over i need a second oh _god_ i hope i don’t cream my pants) when your foot shoots out and halts him by the groin.

He definitely stops, then, confusion written on his face and his rigid stance. You have _no_ idea what you’re doing. Everything seems to have stopped, everywhere, to witness this awkward spectacle, but in the end, it’s not any different from the awkward moments you spend every day together, one fumbling their words and the other patiently waiting.

And Kageyama does wait, unmoving, eyes flickering but form still. You allow yourself a moment to breathe, to calm your racing heart and to drink in the scene before you. Your foot bare, you can _feel_ him pulsing at your soles, unbearably hard and making you dizzy with the knowledge that Kageyama wants you this bad, enough to squirm and shudder when you’re barely even touching him.

You should let him unzip his pants, let him run his hands along his dick. It would only be kind, when Kageyama’s been so obedient, gaze fixed on you expectantly.

But there’s something about the way he looks now, something that makes you heady with arousal, ceiling swimming and fingers aching to touch and ruin. There’s something about the way his head is tilted, almost in deference, stare half-concealed by long eyelashes, the way he’s drawn into your touch and shaking with the effort of staying put. He looks _really_ good, on his knees, sat below you, the foot at his groin only serving to make him look that much more submissive, almost _humiliated_. He looks good in a way that makes something in your chest stir, something in your mind decide that, for once, you want to be cruel to him.

So when he reaches for the zipper of his pants, you stop him, pressing harder against him, and he can’t contain an audible gasp, face open with surprise, and you’re suddenly aware of how hard you two are breathing, jagged pants filling the heated air.

“No,” you say, abruptly, and Kageyama raises his brows, almost challenging, reminding you for a moment that, though he’s always been excessively polite to you, that he recognizes you as his _senpai_ , he’s still _Kageyama_ , and, King or not, can’t stand to have his demands denied. You try not to roll your eyes.

“No,” you say, again, and you coax out of him a low groan that goes straight to your groin, rubbing the balls of your feet into the front of his pants. “Don’t touch yourself. You’ve been so good for me; you can do this for me, can’t you?”

His cock twitches against your toes, and the hand that was hanging reluctantly in the air goes straight to your cock, and you can’t find it in yourself to stifle your moan at the sensation of his callused fingers on you, warm and _there_.

“What do you want me to do, Azumane-san?”

You stop. The question catches you off-guard, gnaws at your weird power rush as you realize that part of the decisions are up to _you_ , that you, too, need to verbalize your wants. You know what you want, god, you want it so _bad_ , but you don’t know how to say it, make it sound at least half-way decent, enough to have Kageyama comply, enough to please him, too.

“Kageyama,” you start, and at once his attention focuses completely on you. “You know, you have a really nice mouth. Has anyone ever told you how cute and full your lips are?

“Because they are,” you insist, when he tries to look away, breaths coming shallowly and eyes glistening, “they are. It makes me think you’d be wonderful at using your mouth. You’ve always been a fast learner, after all, so skilled at everything you do. Wouldn’t you look nice, wrapped around my cock?”

His eyes snap to yours and he _flushes_ , head to toe, and the whine that slips out is incoherent and so, so hot, and what you wouldn’t give to choke him with your cock, delirious with want, but you’re patient, with Kageyama especially so, and so you wait, too, wait for him to slide his fingers down to the base, leaving room for his tongue, god, his _tongue_ , gliding along the tip of your length, testing, along the head and across the frenulum, saliva dripping heedlessly onto his chin, onto you. He flattens his tongue against the shaft – tenses, curls it slightly around the circumference, and the squirming, the trembling, the wetness makes you far too close, and then he stops, withdraws his tongue, a trail of spit still tying you together.

You’re still reeling when his lips engulf the head of your cock.

It would be embarrassing if you started crying now, not now. His mouth is hot, too hot, pulsing and soaking, working itself around you, and – and he’s _swallowing_ , pressure enough to make you groan as he tries to work the rest of your dick into his throat. The noises he makes are lost, words translating into pure sensation and senseless vibration against you, and you rest your hand in his tangled hair, exercising enough self-restraint that you don’t accidentally push him further onto you. You dig your nails softly into his scalp, and he moans around you, spit escaping along his jaw and around your dick, and every pore feels like it’s on _fire_.

“Kageyama,” you say, voice shaking, and he looks up at you, and it takes all you have left to not finish then and there. “Kageyama, you’re so, so good for me, I knew you could do it. You could take in all of me, couldn’t you? You’ve done so well, so far. I believe you can do it, please, Kageyama, I want you to.”

And your foot, still pressed against his cock, falters, then shifts and leans in, almost kneading, and tears are gathering in his eyes – from what, you’re not sure – and he swallows, again, breathing in through his nose before closing his eyes and slowly, slowly taking you in.

His lips are spread so wide around you, slick with spit and what is surely precum, and he stops, suddenly (maybe you’ve hit the back of his throat – you can’t tell the sensations apart, anymore), when all your cock is in his mouth and his chin grazes the skin of your balls, hair against his nose (and you hope it doesn’t smell too bad). His tongue strains against the underside of your length, and he’s groaning freely around you, unrepentant, and against your foot you barely register a slight dampness.

You tighten your fingers around his hair, a reminder, then carefully pull off. He gasps for air, blinking furiously, and even his fingers tremble uncontrollably now. He looks at you, a question, and he forgets to wipe his chin.

“Tell me what you want,” you say, before you forget why you stopped in the first place, before your desire becomes too great, commanding all your attention. He stares, brows furrowed, as if to say, ‘I’m the one pleasing _you_.’ Then he moves to stand, and you realize it was more of a ‘isn’t it obvious what I want’ frown. You shake your head, and he pauses.

“I won’t know what you want unless you say it out loud.”

His gaze doesn’t shift, and suddenly you wonder – what if _this_ is where he finally loses his patience, where he needs to leave to collect himself and stop himself from going off at you, and you’d understand completely, but you’d really, really like to keep going. Something in his expression changes, then – his brows relax, eyes soften. He’s understood something you haven’t – maybe he’s heard something you hadn’t meant to say. The air is too thick, and you wonder if the moment’s dissipated when he says, almost shyly, the quietest you’ve ever heard him after all this time, “I want to feel you dripping out of me.”

_God._

Then you realize what he’s trying to say and your stomach churns, head foggy with want but warning bells ringing nonetheless.

“That’s… that’s not _safe_ , Kageyama, we really shouldn’t…”

“I don’t have anything,” he persists, voice almost pleading, and it’s so hard to resist him when he’s grinding into the sole of your foot, urgently, “I don’t, please, can’t we just…?”

“God, still, I don’t know…”

“Have you done it before?” he asks, and there’s no accusation, just eyes wide with the need to know, tinged in desperation.

“No, I haven’t, and I probably don’t have anything either, but, still… we haven’t really done this sort of thing before, it’s better to be safe? Wouldn’t it be dirty?”

And suddenly you see the first real hesitance cross his face, palpable in his sudden tenseness, and your muscles involuntarily tense, too. You press, cautiously, “Kageyama?”

His cheeks _burn_.

You haven’t seen him turn this red since he first started asking you if he could toss for you.

He stands, startling even himself, and you reach out, pull him to you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. His arms tighten around your shoulders, hiding his face, and this was never a situation you’d envisioned, a role reversal that has you, for a moment, speechless. Aren’t _you_ usually the one trying to hide embarrassment? He mutters into your skin, and you try not to shiver.

“Sorry, what?”

His eyes are far too close, having to flick from eye to eye to look at you, and this close you can see the sweat beading down his cheek, curling the tips of his hair, and you’re hit with a wave of _guilt_ because you’ve really been hard on him, at least for the first time you could’ve been _kinder_ , but these thoughts struggle against the intensity of his smell at this proximity, the scent of sweat and fabric softener and a smell you’ve come to associate with _him_ making your senses go haywire.

“I’ve,” he starts, before once more burying his face into your shoulder, and you hope the hand you place on his back is at least somewhat comforting, “I’ve been wanting to do this. For a while.”

The revelation leaves you… _flattered_ , if not somewhat embarrassed. You’re horrified to realize – you’re actually _relieved_. Gosh, for a while there, you’d dealt with waking up in the middle of the night, awash in hormones and confusion, spending long glances at Kageyama after practice to wonder if he felt the same way. And even after you’d stopped wondering, you’d still felt these desires something to be hidden, something to be ashamed of – it was unfair to him, you think even now, if you thought about him that way when he clearly (at least, it seemed to you) didn’t feel anything for you. That weight lifts somewhat, now, with his recent confession, something close to elation lighting up your heart, but you’re still not sure where he’s going with this.

He releases a shuddering breath into your collarbone. “I imagined what it would be like, to have Azumane-san inside me. I thought, god, you’re probably really big. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I always got so hard thinking about it, and I wanted it so _bad_ , I just. I wanted to know what it’d be like, I hoped – I wanted it to _happen_ , I wanted you to want it.

“Please, Azumane-san, I’ve _practiced_ , I know how to do it, I’m _clean_ , just _please, fuck me_.”

Your mind is filled with questions. Did he spend just as many hours casting furtive glances, keeping at bay burning desire? Did he really go home and lie in bed at the thought of you, _inside_ him, spreading himself open with his fingers and wishing they were something bigger? Did he come with your name on his lips, bitten into the mattress to remain unheard and unquestioned?

Moreover, were you going give him what he wanted?

Your hands come up to his collar, unbuttoning and almost unbidden, and a quiet, ‘oh’, escapes his mouth, before he pulls at his trousers, sliding them down, groaning when his boxers slip off and his dick slips free, already dripping and flushed unbelievably red. Your own shirt, already undone, is easy to take off, and you lean back, flush against the mattress, and Kageyama sits on your thighs, confused.

“You said you practiced,” you repeat, even if only to confirm that those were real words that came out of his mouth, and he nods tightly, cheeks still suffused with blood. “And you know what to do. So show me.”

You rifle around beneath your pillow – where did that darn thing go? – before you find what you’re looking for. You hand him a slim tube, and he stares, uncomprehending, before he _realizes_ and his eyes are so, so wide.

“I don’t use it for anything but, well. You know,” you say, and you overcome your embarrassment with the anticipation of what’s to come. “Hopefully it’s good enough?”

“I- uh, yeah. Yeah! This is fine, this is. I’ll just.”

He coats his fingers generously, letting it run between his fingers for a better feel for its texture and god, you swallow thickly, the action makes you so, so impatient, makes you wonder just how many times he’s done this, to warrant such deft and practiced fingers when he reaches behind him, managing to prepare himself without once taking his eyes off you.

“You’ve wanted me so bad, huh?” you muse aloud, and though you didn’t mean to say it, Kageyama’s expression makes it worth it. “Thought about me deep inside you.”

“Y-Yeah,” he says, voice breaking as he shifts, presumably slipping another finger in with a sigh.

“How long?”

His chest rises and falls with the effort of keeping himself elevated, of answering you while pushing his fingers deeper, wider. “G-God. I don’t know. When you. When you first _spiked_ , at the match with the… the neighbourhood association.”

“ _What?_ ” because that was _so long ago_ , and he’s been holding onto these feelings since _then_? Who was really doing the pining here?

“I was blocking, remember… and I saw… ah, I couldn’t stop. Thinking about your spike. And your eyes, fuck… I’d wake up sometimes, remembering your face, your body, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how cool you are, and I was _so_ turned on, I couldn’t sleep, I’d have to run to burn it off…”

Then he leans back, and you can see, just before his fingers slip out with a squelch, Kageyama stretched slightly and wet, dark with the pulling at his fingers, and you remember why this started, how Kageyama wanted you _dripping out of him_ , and you can see it, and he would look _so good,_ so _adorable_.

“So adorable,” you echo your thoughts, pulling Kageyama up your body by his thighs, and his skin is so, so slick, still trembling, blood pulsing. “Thinking about me, practicing for me. You really like me, don’t you? I love that about you, too. I thought about you too, you know. Thought about how good you are, as a setter, at how good you’d be sitting on my cock.”

“A-Azumane-san,” and he’s whimpering again, torso curled over yours, fingers clenched too tight on your chest and you want so badly to watch him fall apart, to _make him_ fall apart in front of you, watch this _kouhai_ that you adore so much show you just how much he wants you.

“Ride me, Kageyama,” you say, into the shell of his ear. “You’re such a good boy.”

With one hand, he steadies himself on you, raising his hips until his weight is balanced on his knees once more, and with the other, he reaches for your cock, hands still slick with lube as he slides his fingers up and down, and even through the haze of arousal you can make out the hunger in his gaze, in his too tight grip.

“Azumane-san,” he says again, positioned above your cock, thumb at his entrance and fingers guiding you, and you keep your hands, grounding, at his hips, squeezing him and spreading. Slowly, _slowly_ , he lowers himself onto you.

“ _God_ ,” and you’re blubbering, but you can’t stop yourself, not when Kageyama’s rolling his eyes back and leaving his lips parted on a moan, when he’s so tight around you and so warm, so hot, so much everything at once, “you feel so good around me, Kageyama, you’re so tight and wet. You’re doing such a good job, you can take the rest – fuck yourself on me, you’re so beautiful.”

“Azumane-san, you’re so thick, shit,” he’s chanting in turn, head lolling to his shoulder as he takes you in, more, more, squeezing around you, and the hand that isn’t holding him up by your leg comes up to touch his dick, hands spasming around it and its slickness is so, so loud (or maybe that’s the sound of you fucking him, it’s all melding into one sound characterised by desire, by Kageyama sobbing). “You feel so much better than I thought, I…”

His ass hits your pelvis and you both inhale suddenly, savouring the moment. He looks down at you, and he has enough presence of mind to still be asking your permission, to know to wait, and after what feels like an eternity, you nod, just slightly, struggling to hold up your own weight.

Like this, he begins to move, and his legs are shaking you, too, when he slides up, down, until he’s almost bouncing on top of you, and his tightness is almost unbearable, and your head is muddled, like trying to map out the contours of his body in the middle of stormy, relentless seas, and his eyes slide open, though gaze unfocused still searching for you, and he’s drooling down his chin, onto his chest, heaving, and his fingers are pressed so stiffly into your chest and his cock absolutely soaking, deliciously red in the grip of his tan fingers when he whispers, brokenly, “Asahi-san…”

You lose it.

He yells in surprise when you pick him up, slide him off you and onto the bed, the mattress creaking as he bounces, and he looks like he’s about to question you when you raise his hips by his ass, off the bed, when you slide back into him completely in one fluid movement, and he _screams_.

“Asahi-san- _Asahi_ ,” and he’s openly crying, now, head thrown back, and his hands are curled so tight around the sheets, pooling around him and half torn off the bed. You couldn’t handle it, watching him fuck himself on you, not moving fast enough, not _hard_ enough, when you wanted so much to just fill him up and fuck him into the mattress, and you _do_ , you pound into him, you pound his torso into the bed, until he’s sinking and not sliding towards the bedpost, and his legs come up to your waist, wrapping himself around you like you’ll stop if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t hold you together.

Your hands free, you grasp his leaking cock, and his moans and cries are just audible over the slap of skin against skin, of the distinct _wetness_ there, and he’s so, so beautiful like this, spread out all for you, all around you, it’s like he was made only for you and he’s _gorgeous_ and he’s so, so good, voice begging and begging, and you want to come in him so bad, to give him what he wants, he deserves everything he’s ever wanted, you want to fill him up until you’re spilling out and he can’t take a step without remembering you in him, without wishing you were there and god, _Tobio_

His come splatters across his chest, his body almost bent in half, mouth open on a silent scream. His body freezes; shudders, and he clenches down on you until you, still thrusting, finally, _finally_ come inside him, marking him inside. He gasps, holds his breath, tightens, riding you out through your orgasm, through his aftershocks and overstimulation. It's after what feels like an eternity later, when the world becomes tangible again, when simple touch no longer becomes overwhelming, that he breathes, coming down, entire body trembling around you. 

You two, still bound, lie motionless, limp in exhaustion (both physically and emotionally), and moments stretch into minutes, calm silence punctuated by slowing breath. 

He sighs, and you pull out with a grunt, and it's a hazy afterthought when you realize that a stickiness followed you out. Kageyama's legs slide languidly down your sides, still spread on the surface of the bed, and so when you sit back on your haunches, you take the opportunity to look down, and, _oh_. 

Against his tanned skin, you drip out of him, thick and striking white melting into the bed sheets below, and through the pangs of _want_ and _need_ , you're suddenly overwhelmed with... _fondness_? To look down at this boy beneath you, drenched in sweat and fluid, looking so satisfied, so _pleased_ , you can't stop the visceral assertion in your heart that he's mine, _mine, mine_. But you're tired, you both are, his eyes not raising from their lazy half-mast, your body threatening to give out then and there. 

You flop down next to him, onto the soft pillows, and had it not been for the way Kageyama immediately curls into your side, you might have fallen asleep. His heat against yours makes everything feel warmer, softer, and even in this half-conscious state does he find it in himself to cover his red face.

“Can you call me Tobio again?”

You stare. 

And, oh, _no_ , you’d said all that out loud, at the end, your true feelings, that disgusting sentimental affection and adoration that you try so hard to bottle up, but he looks up at you, gaze hopeful, and you find that affection, that admiration and respect reflected in his eyes, so trusting and so vulnerable. How could you ever deny this? You’re warm, warmer than you’ve been this entire tryst, and you feel then that maybe you really, really love this boy.

You smile at him.

“Tobio."


End file.
